While they were slowly "pumping" the hand car homeward, fighting against
the force of the raging snow storm, they discovered us lying closely
cuddled together, all but buried in the snow and beginning the eternal
sleep of death. They stopped, and finding that we were yet faintly
breathing, they loaded us upon the hand car and brought us to the
section reservation.

Here by every means known to them they tried to revive the flickering
sparks of life left in our frozen bodies. In my case they were
successful, but Peoria Red, poor fellow, failed to respond to their
heroic efforts. The following day they buried him on a slight elevation,
diagonally across the track from the bunk house, where, whenever I
looked in that direction, I could plainly discern the white board cross
that the whole-souled laborers had erected to mark his grave.

The section foreman's name was Henry McDonald. He was a kind-hearted, yet
stern man who demanded utmost obedience of those whom he commanded,
while at the same time he was a loving father to his family. Foreman
McDonald had none but the friendliest of greetings for me and he spent
many moments at the bunk house trying to cheer me in my hard luck.
Whenever I felt ill at ease for having added such a heavy burden to his
small income, his quaint answer would always be: "Joe, what little we
can do for you we would cheerfully do for any human being in distress.
We do not ask for your excuses, as I feel that the Almighty above us
will take care of me and my family, the pride of my humble life."

When I recovered some of my former strength I did the "chores" for the
section foreman's wife, who not only boarded the five members of her
husband's crew, but took proper care of her four healthy and ever hungry
children.